So disdainful, you, Father Figure
Your blistering bomb radiation couldn’t get to me here
So you unhinged my door
And packed all my pearls in boxes
And had the dog eat my poetry

My gypsy costume, heaped in a corner
A rumpled fossil that I slipped over my shoulders
And danced a tango for the young around your house
Because you’re big stupid fingers couldn’t get a grip
On what made me happy

It wasn’t my damn door, you idiot.

And that night I crawled out my window
To watch the stars ripen and drip
And plucked them from the sky like plums
Now my dress is stained with ether
And my stomach pulled tight with juice

There is a caravan off to the east
Driven by a boy-thing with blond hair I used to know
I will run after it when it comes down our street
Bangles clanging, hair dropping out, morals aching,
And leave to sell Theology and Palm-reading

So you can have my door, if you think that will bother me.